


All That I Want But Nothing That I Need

by intrepidheart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Dean's Birthday, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Requited Unrequited Love, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 03:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5811094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intrepidheart/pseuds/intrepidheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam just wants to do something for Dean's birthday. Dean isn't having it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That I Want But Nothing That I Need

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of Dean's birthday today but set in Season 1 because reasons.

“It’s just another day, Sam.”

That gives Sam pause, his fingers tightening on the armload of gas station gifts he had tried to be subtle about collecting so that Dean wouldn’t see. Clearly, he hadn’t done a good job.

“What are you talking about?” He goes for nonchalance as he turns away from his older brother and starts to meander down the chip aisle, the slush clinging to the soles of his boots making them squeak against the tile floor. “I’m just getting snacks.”

Dean heaves a sigh like he’s the most burdened human being on the planet,  _save it_ , Dean, and matches Sam’s strides in the next aisle over, his hands stuck deep in the faded brown pockets of his jacket.

“You seem to forget that I know you like the back of my hand, Sammy. I know what you’re doin’, so just quit it.”

Sam does his best to keep his face smooth and his jaw unclenched as he plucks a packet of peanut M&M’s off a rack, throwing it on top of the growing pile pressed against his chest. “And what is it exactly that you think I’m doing?”

“What I _know_ you’re doing is the same thing you always did as a kid on my birthday, except now you’re eight feet tall and a lot more obvious than you think, so would you put all that shit away so we can get back on the road?”

Ignoring the thorny snarl curling around his heart at Dean’s words, Sam grabs a bag of teriyaki beef jerky and turns the corner to cover the remaining distance to the cashier’s counter. The overload of items are stashed in a crinkly gray plastic bag and paid for with the twenty that Sam thumbs from his back pocket, courtesy of winning the pot in a poker game last week two towns over. Looping his wrist through the hand holes, Sam tucks his hands in his front pockets, nods at the cashier, and lets the stockpile of teeth-rotting sugar and processed food bang against his thigh on his way out into the snow.

“Not everything’s about you, Dean,” Sam finally replies once Dean matches his stride, like he always does. “Maybe I just feel like junk food.”

Sam can practically hear Dean’s eyes rolling as they both slide into the front seat, the Impala doors creaking before slamming shut in unison.

“You sure there’s not somethin’ you wanna tell me about?” Dean asks, eyebrows raised as he turns the key in the ignition.

The familiar rumble of the car loosens the muscles in Sam’s neck, lets him slide down into a more comfortable position with his back against the door and his legs unfolded in the foot well as he stares evenly at Dean.

“What?”

Dean smiles, too quick and too white for Sam’s brain to have a chance to throw up proper defenses. “You get pregnant and forget to tell me, Samantha? Having some crazy baby cravings? Suddenly got a hankering for Mexican food?”

Dean’s still grinning when the bag of M&M’s hits him square in the face.

-

Sam never means to make it a big deal.

So he likes to do something special each year for the people he cares about on their birthdays. What’s wrong with that?

It’s not like he has many people he can do it for. Dad’s in the wind, still missing, still leaving a trail of moldy bread crumbs for him and Dean to trace across the continental U.S., and besides, Sam’s pretty damn sure that after the monumental blowout they had before he got on that bus to California, John would want jack shit from his youngest anyways. There was Jess, but she’s dead, gone, for God’s sake, don’t make him think about the plans he made last year with the candles and the Chinese take-out arranged on paper plates or the way her hair smelled like vanilla when she tucked her head under his chin on the couch as they watched _When Harry Met Sally_ , “It’s a classic, Sam, how have you never seen it?”. Don’t make him think about how he’d stared at his phone as the minutes ticked away after Jess fell asleep, wondering whether or not he should hit number two on speed dial with the words “happy birthday” on his lips and risk getting hung up on. The memory of the look of soul-crushing betrayal on his brother’s face when he walked out that door was what eventually convinced Sam to turn his phone over and roll away.

That was then. This is now. And right now it’s easier to focus on the fact that Dean’s birthday is tomorrow, and Jess’s, God, _Jess_ , it still hurts, still too soon, so he needs to put all his energy into making this meaningful for Dean. Sam hasn’t been around to do anything for it for the past four years, so he just wants to fucking do something, okay?

But Dean has to be his usual pain-in-the-ass self, shooting down anything Sam offers, scoffing when Sam asks what to get him, walking away when Sam asks if he wants to go anywhere special. So, in short, fuck Dean.

“Why are you being so difficult?” Sam explodes as they pull into a Super 8 somewhere in Wyoming.

It’s been sleeting non-stop for the last two hours and Dean hasn’t stopped bitching about snow tires and the damage that road salt has on his precious car in that entire time, so Sam’s just about ready to gnaw his arm off.

“I’m a fucking joy to be around. I don’t know what are you talkin’ about.” Dean’s out of the car and yanking his duffel from the back by the time Sam’s door swings open. Apparently Dean is gunning for the title of World’s Biggest Asshole today because he slams the trunk shut before Sam can grab his bag too.

Levelling his most searing glare at the back of Dean’s head as he walks off to the front office to get them a room, Sam pops the trunk again and shoulders his bag and gets out of the path of the storm by waiting under the awning that covers the entire length of sidewalk along the building. Dean re-emerges with a key swinging from his fingers and that's when Sam swoops in, walking far closer than necessary until Dean stops at room 3B and sets about opening the door.

When it comes to them and these ugly, terse bouts of endless bickering over stupid shit like who did laundry last, they can’t help but fall into the pattern of always having to push and push until one of them loses it. Seems this particular burden is settling on Sam’s shoulders this round, so he takes this opportunity to step forward until his front is pressed along the line of Dean’s back.

“You ever hear of personal space, Sammy?” Dean growls, key scraping against wood as he tries to shove it into the hole and misses. The sharp jab of an elbow meets Sam’s stomach but he stands his ground.

“Maybe if you weren’t so slow with getting the door open--”

“--maybe I’d be able to concentrate if you weren’t screeching in my goddamn ear--”

“--oh, _fuck_ you, Dean--”

It’s suffice to say Sam wasn’t expecting Dean to slam backwards into his chest to force him back a few steps, so when he slips on the thin layer of ice that covers the sidewalk, he doesn’t get his hands out fast enough to soften the blow. Dean pushes the door open and looks over his shoulder to meet Sam’s furious gaze on the ground where his tailbone is probably most definitely bruised and his jeans are getting soaked through.

“It’s rude to stare, Sammy, you know that.” Dean smirks, causing Sam’s face to redden even further. He leans forward, opening his mouth to start in on Dean, when the door slams shut right in front of his nose.

Swearing loudly, Sam thrashes his leg out to kick the door, yelling out an accompanying, “You’re a friggin’ _jerk_ , Dean!” before hearing Dean’s fist meet the door from the inside, one loud bang of acknowledgement.

The stubborn part of Sam wants to continue to sit there and sulk until Dean opens the door and tells him to get inside before his ass gets frostbite. The enraged little brother part of Sam forces himself to stand up, brush off the back of his jeans and sling his bag over his shoulder before setting off back towards the road. He remembers seeing the neon blue and red sign outside a bar blaring  _OPEN_ as they drove past, and after enduring the last few hours, hell,  _days_ , with Dean, he deserves a goddamn drink. 

The wind is whipping ice into his face, even despite his jacket being zipped up just above his chin, so when he finally crosses the threshold into the warm, stale air of the bar, his cheeks are entirely numb. Throwing his bag down next to his chosen stool, Sam pats the sticky counter top to get the bartender's attention as he unzips his jacket and shakes the snow out of his bangs.

"You got an ID, kid?"

"Yeah," Sam mumbles, working his wallet out of his back pocket to slide his California driver's license out of the slot. After glancing at the card, the man, broad chested and full bearded, took to filling Sam's order of a whiskey on the rocks with deft fingers.

A jukebox in the corner is playing a Smashing Pumpkins song, one he can't remember the name of, and there's only two other patrons here besides himself. One is slumped over a large mug of beer several seats down from Sam, froth clinging to the coarse hairs that sit over his top lip, and the other is alone at a booth with a bowl of chicken wing bones shoved to the end of the table, his eyes fixed on the crossword he is so diligently working on. 

Sam's on his fifth drink by the time Dean shoulders the door open with a long stream of swear words that drowns out the languid flow of music that has settled onto Sam's skin.

"You fuckin' kidding me, Sam?" He's right there, cold, pink nose nearly touching Sam's cheek with how close he's leaning in. His eyes are flints of green, pupils blown wide in his anger, and Sam can see individual snowflakes sitting on the ends of the wet triangles of Dean's eyelashes. "You think that was funny?"

Sam snorts and turns his head away to take another swig of his drink only to find his mouth pressed to the back of Dean's hand from where he's slapped his palm over the rim of Sam's glass. Dean uses his other hand to catch Sam's wrist when he tries to use his forearm to shove Dean away.

"Fuck off, Dean."

"Not cool, Sammy. Seriously."

"It's  _Sam_ , and it's not like you cared. Who slammed the door in my face, huh?" Sam snaps, wrestling his arm free before knocking Dean's hand off his glass.

"What are you, two years old? It's not like I locked you out, princess. You could've walked your ass in there so I wouldn't have to drive up and down this road for the past half hour wondering if you were turning blue from hypothermia in a goddamned ditch!"

"I'm fine. Clearly. So you can go now." Sam says sourly, throwing back the remainder of his drink so hard that the ice slides down and smacks the front of his teeth.

His glass is plucked from his fingers as soon as he starts to lower it. Just like that, his chest flares hot and sends flames racing through his arm so fast that all he can do is watch as his palm stretches out to connect with Dean's shoulder, shoving him back a few steps. He's dimly pleased to see the look of shock on Dean's face but it quickly fades as Dean crowds back into him and slides his glass down the length of the bar, far out of Sam's reach.

"It's time to go. Get in the car, Sam."

" _Leave_ , Dean."

Dean is opening his mouth to start his next round, the harsh angle of his eyes conflicting with the way the snow has made his hair stand up in wet spikes to make him look years younger than he actually is, when the bartender steps up in front of them from behind the bar.

"Everything all right here, boys?" The man's voice is cautious but loaded with intent, and Sam doesn't doubt that there's a metal baseball bat within arm's length under the counter.

"Everything's fan-friggin'-tastic, thanks for asking. Just trying to get Sammy here home before the storm gets any worse."

Sam's protest of that stupid nickname gets halted by the bartender's deep baritone. "I don't want any trouble."

"No trouble. Cross my heart, hope to die." Dean's got that stupid charming smile smacked on his face, the one that tries for innocent but just makes Sam want to punch it off most of the time. "C'mon, Sam. Car."

He can see the doubt etched in the lines of the bartender's face, so Sam forces himself to give a reassuring smile of his own. "It's fine. Should be getting back anyway." He gets to his feet, forking over what he owes from his wallet with a short "thanks" before stooping to grab his bag.

Dean all but tows Sam outside with his fist in the front lapel of Sam's jacket to where the Impala is running, headlights slicing through the swirling snow that obscures most of his vision.

"Such a pain in my ass, Sammy," Dean calls over the howling wind as he opens the passenger door for Sam to get in.

"Yeah, you're one to talk!" Sam gets his body between Dean and the door and uses his weight to shut it behind him. "If I had to spend one more second cooped with your shitty attitude, I was going to lose my mind, so can you really blame me?"

Dean takes a step closer, his mouth carved down into a scowl. "You could have told me you were going somewhere instead of just wandering off into a blizzard, you ever think about that?"

Sam just lets out a frustrated groan, the warmth of the whiskey in his veins telling him that this argument is beyond pointless. He pushes off the door, simultaneously moving Dean back as he starts to open it before Dean reaches around him to shut it again.

"Listen," Dean says, loud enough so that Sam can hear it over the storm swirling around them. "We're already looking for Dad. I don't need to spend time worrying about looking for you too. Got it?"

Blinking a fresh spray of powder out of his eyes, Sam meets Dean's stare and deflates, whatever remaining anger that was in him seeping out through his boots and into the ground below. It leaves him tired and aching and ready for a pillow under his head, so he sighs and lets that speak for him.

"Yeah, Dean," he offers, pulling the door open once more. "I got it."

Sam barely hears the faint "okay" before Dean shuffles his way to the driver's side. It's warm inside the car, the hot air blasting right in Sam's face as he settles into the passenger seat as always. They're both silent as Dean pulls out, even more careful than usual as he gets them on the main road to bring them back to the motel.

Maybe it's the way the heat and the alcohol in his veins are mixing together or maybe it's the way Dean keeps sneaking glances at him out of the corner of his eye. Either way, it leads to Sam pushing himself up in his seat and turning to stare right at his brother.

"I just don't get it, okay? I don't get why you're fighting me so hard on doing something for your birthday. It's the first time we're together for it in years and I just--" Sam swallows hard, noting the tight clench of Dean's jaw and the way his hand is flexing on the wheel. "I just wanna do something for someone, all right? And right now, you're my someone. So just - so just  _let_ me."

Sam marks the seconds that pass by how fast Dean's finger is tapping on his knee. He gets up to eighty four by the time Dean eases into the parking lot of the motel for the second time tonight and pulls the keys out of the ignition. He still isn't fully looking at Sam, his gaze fixed on the door to their room as his knee starts bouncing in pent up agitation.

"It's just not high on my list of priorities right now, Sammy," Dean starts, his voice quiet enough that Sam has to lean forward to catch it over the noise of the engine ticking and the gusts of wind outside. "Like I told you. It's just another day."

"Well, to me it isn't."

"After everything that's happened, there's no point in celebrating tomorrow, Sam. It's not that hard to understand."

"Fine!" Sam throws his hands up without thinking and smacks his fingers off the roof of the car. He cusses low and lets them fall back to his sides to grip the worn leather. "Fine. Then we won't celebrate. Nothing fancy. Just tell me what you want so I can get you something."

Dean's leg starts moving faster, jumping up and down hard enough that Sam can feel it in his seat. "I don't - I don't need anything."

"Okay, well, everyone wants something, so what is it?" After a few more moments of loaded silence, Sam just starts guessing, desperate to get something out of Dean before they leave the car and break this spell. "C'mon, just tell me. Skin mags? A new cassette tape?"

“I don’t need anything, Sammy," Dean repeats firmly.

“But what do you _want_?”

Dean lets out a harsh scoff, jarring the next words on Sam's tongue back down his throat. "God, Sam, will you just drop it?" And then he's gone, door shutting hard behind him and swallowing him in the storm outside.

It's more impulse than anything, Sam punching the dashboard, but the pain radiating from his knuckles that will no doubt be bruised tomorrow actually helps sharpen his mind. He follows Dean into their room, shucking off his jacket to throw it on the chair sitting by the door before toeing off his boots.

Dean’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth so Sam changes into sweatpants and a long sleeved shirt. He combs his hair free of snow with his fingers once he’s shimmied under the covers of his bed and propped himself up against the headboard, waiting for Dean to come out again.

He has about four particular things he’s ready to say that he’s fairly certain will either make Dean punch him or completely open up, but when Dean actually steps out of the bathroom, all Sam can see is how tired his brother looks. There’s something sad bending the air around him, his shoulders sunk low even as he lifts a hand to scrub at the back of his head on his way to stand in the space that sits between their beds.

So instead Sam reaches out and lightly taps Dean’s hip. “Got carded in the bar tonight.”

Dean tilts his head and gives Sam a little half-smile. “Yeah? I’m not surprised. You look like a toddler with all that hair in your face.” And with that, Dean slips his fingers up Sam’s forehead to thread through his wet bangs. Sam stills, eyes wide as he watches Dean’s face while he takes his time pushing Sam’s hair away. Dean’s grip tightens a fraction, holding Sam’s bangs off his forehead just long enough to be a little weird before he spreads his fingers out and ruffles the strands vigorously.

His hand is gone as soon as Sam blinks, his mind slowly spinning from how unguarded Dean looked in that moment, completely unaware of the way Sam had been watching him. That sadness had lingered there along with something else, something familiar and bone-deep that made Sam’s entire body ache in sympathy. He wants to place it, the emotion, but it's just out of reach and he suddenly feels too tired to even try. 

Their heads hit the pillows at the same time and Dean is the one to reach over and snap off the lamp sitting on the table between them, shrouding them both in darkness. Sam can hear the heater working, slow ticks filling the room to match the draw of breaths in Dean's lungs. He focuses on that, closing his eyes and sinking down into the lumpy mattress on his stomach with his arms crossed beneath his pillow.

In time, Sam feels himself slip into that between state of unconscious awareness where the edges of his dreams all shone with a hazy light. Maybe it's because Dean was the last thing he saw before falling asleep, but whatever the reason, Dean is here in this scene now.

It's more of a memory, something from months back, right when they first got on this winding path that they hope will lead them to their father and the solution for finding the monster who was responsible for ruining their lives. Sam, on the floor, feeling wetness curving down his cheeks from blurry eyes, shattered glass surrounding him like the dreams he once had when he first stepped onto the campus at Stanford. Dean, kneeling, cupping Sam's face in his hands with worry and fear screaming through him in the slow, careful movements he makes as he drags his thumb through one of the streaks of blood on Sam's cheek. There, that flicker, something in the black window of Dean's pupils that is there and gone as soon as it came.

Another memory bleeds in, shaping the dream into the front porch of a door just opened by a too happy real estate agent who rambles about accepting people of all race, religion, color and sexual orientation. Sam feels the bolt of realization as readily as he did when he was on those steps and turns to look at Dean. It's there again, what Sam is trying to decipher, hidden in the way he blinks too fast and a quick flush of pink blooms along the tops of his cheeks.

Before Sam can even try to drag himself back to consciousness, he's thrown into a new one, one he's revisited too many times in his nightmares. Dean, sick, eyes dark and hollow in contrast to the stark white of the hospital sheets. Heartbeat too slow, his chest moving too shallow, and that terrifying twist deep in Sam's gut that has him leaning against the door frame for support. The look on Dean's face after Sam helps him into their motel room, the one he gets right after Sam says, "I'm not gonna let you die, period." The way Dean's breathing stutters. The way Dean's eyes drops to Sam's mouth, like he's watching the way Sam traces each letter before he speaks them.

With a jolt, Sam is awake, eyes wide and unblinking and straining in the blackness blanketing their room.

He's ended up on his side, facing away from Dean's side of the room, and after forcing himself to roll over, he can see the bright red block numbers of the digital clock cutting into his vision. It's past midnight, closer to one, really, and only a couple of hours since they both crashed. With a shaky sigh, Sam lets his face fall into his pillow, effectively smothering himself for a moment as he tries to sort through the snarled mess of thoughts in his head. Because if he's wrong... He just can't afford to be wrong. Not about this.

It's always been there for him, that lingering throb of his heart that he's grown to ignore. After dealing with it for the better part of his adolescent and teenage years, it got easier, because there was rage that he could cover it with, rage and fear and being tired, so fucking tired of the moves and the kickback of shotguns and the way the ash from salt and burns always got in his eyes. But Christ. He thought it was just him.

Before he can let the rational part of his mind catch up, the sheets covering his legs are thrown back and Sam is standing at the edge of Dean's mattress. Easing himself down until he's sitting next to Dean, who's on his side drooling open-mouthed everywhere, _typical_ , Sam watches the faint outline of his hand reach forward to shake his brother awake.

Dean wakes with a short intake of breath, his mouth snapping closed and his arm tensing as he no doubt grips the handle of the knife Sam knows he keeps below his pillow.

"It's me," Sam whispers quickly. "It's fine, it's just me."

Letting out a huge gust of breath, Dean retracts his hand from under his head so he can knuckle at his eyes, blinking blearily up at Sam now that he knows there's no imminent danger.

"Well, It's Just Me, what the fuck time is it?" Dean croaks before a yawn takes over.

"Dean," Sam says.

Dean cuts the yawn off at that. He pushes himself up onto his elbow, eyeing Sam warily. "What?"

"What do you want for your birthday?" Sam asks, hoping that Dean won't be able to hear the shake in his voice.

With a sigh, Dean drags his other hand down his face, turning to stare at the clock before levelling a tired glare at Sam. "Seriously, dude? You woke me up on my birthday to ask me the same fuckin' question I told you to not ask me?"

"Can you shut up for a second?" Sam says, planting his fingers high up Dean's chest to shove him onto his back on the mattress. It doesn't take much and it leaves Dean silent and wide-eyed, so Sam takes it as a win. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and lets it out slow before opening them again, pouring every inch of meaning into his next words. "What do you  _want_ , Dean?"

Sam's eyes have adjusted to the darkness by now so he can see the way Dean's throat is working, how hard his jaw is clenching and unclenching. Sam shifts, turning to more fully face Dean. He tries to let his body language speak for him, tries to keep chest open, his shoulders low and non-threatening, his face genuine as he waits for an answer. Finally, he gets it.

"Nothing I can have." Dean sounds more vulnerable than Sam has heard in a long time, this quiet mutter that tries not to show much while speaking volumes. "So it doesn't really matter, does it?"

Sam can feel his pulse pounding in his throat, hard and fast to match his heart bruising a pattern on the inside of his ribs. Tentatively, he reaches forward and slips his right hand under the back of Dean's head while using the left to twist in the front of Dean's shirt and pull him up. Dean's arm shoots out immediately, pressing tight in a slant against Sam's chest to prevent him from leaning forward any more than he already has while supporting his weight with his other.

"Sam." Stern. A warning. But Sam didn't miss the way Dean's voice cracked either.

"It's what you want, right?" Sam murmurs, unable to pull his eyes away from the way Dean's lips look when they're parted ever so slightly, full and pursed and all too inviting. Part of that may also be the fear that if he meets his brother's eyes, he's going to see the red flags, see the indicators that he read this wrong and that he's crossed a line he was never supposed to even look at. So Sam keeps his eyes on Dean's mouth. If he's going to get a punch to the cheek, he'd rather not see it coming.

"Sammy." Weaker now. Giving in.

The arm pressing against Sam's chest eases off, still there but no longer holding him back. Sam lets himself start to lean forward again, moving until his forehead nudges against Dean's. He can feel Dean's hot, shallow exhales brush along his face. He wants to taste them. He wants and he wants but he can't, not until he hears it.

"Just tell me what you want," Sam breathes, his eyes drifting shut as he feels Dean's palm open against his chest to fist his shirt just like Sam is doing to his. His skin feels too tight and every nerve in his body is alight, shivering in anticipation and hope.

"I can't ask for that," Dean whispers. "Sam, I can't."

"All you ever had to do was say it," Sam says back just as low, his fingers tightening along the back of Dean's head.

He can feel the sigh leave Dean's body in the same moment he feels Dean's lips mold against his own. It's like he was trying to chase that breath, the one that allowed him to sink into Sam's embrace instead of continue to fight against it. Sam can't help but press forward, desperate to keep that sigh inside of him, to let it paint the inside of his lungs as a way to mark this moment.

Too soon, just a second after the kiss even began, Dean breaks away with a huff, breathing raggedly, their foreheads still tight together. Sam is shaking now, unable to stop the tremble in his hands as he opens his fingers holding Dean's shirt to curl them around the side of Dean's neck.

He's begging and he doesn't even realize it, "Please, Dean, please," desperate gasps timed with gentle strokes of his thumb along the line of Dean's jaw, and that's what snaps the thread holding Dean back. He surges forward, his mouth back on Sam's with such force that a muffled whimper rises in Sam's throat. He refuses to let Dean back away this time so he tightens his hold and takes the next step to open up, his tongue slipping out to trace the line of Dean's bottom lip. Sam can feel the rattling groan rise under the hand covering Dean's throat and he makes his own desperate noise in response, angling his head to the side to try to convince Dean to let him in. Turns out he doesn't need to try any more, Dean's mouth parting open before a harsh yank to Sam's shirt brings him tumbling forward into Dean's chest.

Sam's elbows are too tight against Dean's front but he doesn't seem to notice, too busy shifting his weight onto his back so that he can card his newly freed hand through Sam's hair before gripping the strands tight. Huffing in surprise, Sam lets his face be tilted just so before Dean's lips are moving against his with bruising force. He can taste his brother and the faint hint of his toothpaste that still coats the inside of his mouth, an intoxicating combination that makes all of his breath leave him in a rush.

"Sam," Dean pants, his nose trailing across Sam's cheek as his mouth traces Sam's jaw. "Jesus, Sammy."

"Just had to ask," Sam manages to say back, his head so light and airy that he has to drop a hand to the mattress to steady himself and keep grounded.

Dean doesn't respond, just ducks away to bury his face into the side of Sam's neck. Sam works his arm around the broad expanse of Dean's shoulders, holding him tight as he turns his cheek to the side of Dean's head. They stay that way for a moment, just trying to catch their breath. Eventually, a low, weak chuckle tickles the hollow of Sam's throat, making him shiver.

Sam almost doesn't catch it, it's said so softly, but he can feel the shape that Dean's lips make as they move against his skin.

"You."

Sam smiles. _I_ _want you_.

With gentle hands, Sam draws Dean out from his neck so their eyes can meet before he lets his mouth skim his brother's, just enough so that Dean can feel his words as well.

"You've always had me."


End file.
